


Pains and Pleasures

by 0Rocky41_7



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: A shit ton of other pairings, Because they're prostitutes, But FrUK is the endgame, F/F, F/M, Gen, Human AU, So lots of pairings, prostitution AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1252237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alice didn't ask to be stuck in this job. She didn't come here, she wound up here. But if any of the women here had a choice, would they be here? It wouldn't be so bad if that fucking Frenchwoman didn't eat up all the clients. How the hell has she not made enough money to get out of here yet?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Jewel

**Author's Note:**

> Name guide:  
> Alice: Fem!England (Little Jewel)  
> Marianne: Fem!France (Eve's Apple; formerly La Française)  
> Isabella: Fem!Spain (The Spanish Lady)  
> Lovina: fem!Romano (Firecracker)  
> Anya: Fem!Russia (White Breast)  
> Tiesa: Fem!Lithuania (Clever Fingers)  
> Sakura: Fem!Japan (The Japanese)  
> Meimei: Taiwan (Cherry Blossom)  
> Angelique: Seychelles (Crimson Bow)  
> Elizabeta: Hungary (Her Highness)  
> Daniel: Nyo!Hungary  
> Lars: Netherlands  
> Seamus: Nyo!Ireland  
> Iona: Fem!Scotland  
> Dyllis: Fem!Wales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice introduces herself and begins the story.

A tall bottle of blue perfume, with a slightly rusted spritzer mechanism and a missing cap. A heart-shaped jar with a collection of dead miniature roses in it, of the warm pink variety (with one white one). A book of famous British poetry, with yellowing pages and tears along the spine (and a nasty rip on the back cover from a fight). Three hair clips, six hair ties, a slightly bent set of wire-rim glasses and several piles of dust. These were the things on Alice’s bedside table. On Alice’s walls, there was nothing, but a single, mediocre painting of flowers across from the window, which was next to the bed, with hardly any space between the two things. Fortunately Alice was very thin and could easily maneuver in cramped quarters. Across from the bed, a thick blue armoire squatted, containing Alice’s meagre supply of clothes and her personal jewelry box, which was also sadly lacking. In Alice’s bed, there was Alice, wearing her white nightgown, with thin straps and a poorly-sewn bit of lace she’d been meaning to tear off the bottom for ages, the result of an early, misguided sewing project. Also in Alice’s bed, there were two other women, but Alice didn’t know that just yet. It wasn’t until plump, soft lips pressed against her ear and a warm, pale arm tightened around her waist, and a sleepy voice trilled quietly in her ear that she became aware.  
  
“Bon _jour_ , ma cherie.”  
  
“Bonnefoy!” It was almost supernatural, how the knowledge of Marianne touching her could jolt Alice right out of what had appeared to be a peaceful slumber. She jerked upright, already hissing and snarling like a feral cat. “What are you doing in my bed?”  
  
“It’s hardly _yours_ , cherie,” Marianne said, stretching lazily, apparently unconcerned with Alice’s fury.  
  
“Is it time to get up?” Another dark head popped up from under the covers, speaking in a confused, semi-conscious manner.  
  
“Spanish Lady!” Alice’s anger doubled and a dull red flushed her cheeks. “Get out!” She shoved Marianne. “She followed you in here! Get out of the bed!”  
  
“But it’s only ten o’clock,” Marianne whined, allowing her body to be jostled by Alice, but not making any attempt to move out of the bed. Isabella didn’t even reply; she’d conked back out. “I was going to sleep with White Breast, but she and Clever Fingers looked so cozy.” She covered her mouth delicately as she yawned and stretched again. “I couldn’t disturb them.”  
  
“Get out!” Alice leaned over her to shove Isabella, who merely snored in response. Her sleek brown hair spread across the pillow, piling over Marianne’s darker locks so the two women could almost be two sides of a coin: Where Marianne had porcelain skin and clear blue eyes, Isabella had tan, almost chestnut skin and vibrant green eyes. Where Marianne was curvy and had an almost childish softness to her face without the make-up, Isabella was all angles, sharp and mature. Ironically, each woman had period fits of jealousy over the other’s physique: Marianne felt fat compared to Isabella and Isabella felt underdeveloped compared to Marianne. But they always got over it and their friendship seemed to weather any storm.  
  
In an attempt to calm Alice, Marianne wrapped her arm around the other woman again, and tried to tug her back to the mattress. All she really succeeded in doing was showing Alice that she wore nothing aside from her underwear and, unable to dislodge the two continentals from her bed, Alice spat a few more curses at them and got up. Marianne shrugged and sighed; Isabella rolled over and pulled Marianne into her arms. The two women went back to sleep and Alice went downstairs.  
  
Her footsteps made almost no sound as she went down the main stairs, making sure to stay on the rug that ran down the center. When she reached the first floor, she had no choice but to step on the chilly wood floors and shuffled into the kitchen. On the table, there was a plate of scones and Alice helped herself to one of those, and put the kettle back on the stove to re-heat the tea someone else had made earlier. From the sound of it, no one else was up yet. She sat at the table and when the kettle whistled, she hastily pulled it off and poured herself a cup; she didn’t want to be responsible for waking anyone else up.  
  
But the Mistress was already up and she looked into the kitchen at the sound, surveying Alice for a moment.  
  
“Make sure you’ve gotten enough sleep,” she reminded Alice.  
  
“I have,” Alice said, flicking her eyes away. Nothing here was personal—not even one’s own sleep schedule. They had to be _monitored_ all the time and Alice hated it.  
“Eve's Apple worked late last night; don’t let her get up too early,” the Mistress added. Her black hair was pulled back in a bun, graying slightly. She was middle-aged now, but she had probably been attractive at one point. Even if her face had lost its youth and smoothness, she still held an air about her that commanded men’s attention.  
  
Alice snorted.  
  
“I don’t think that’s a risk,” she scoffed, taking another bite from her scone. The Mistress eyed her for a moment and then vanished back down the hall to her office. Alice let out a quiet sigh and finished her scone and tea in silence. When she was done with that, she pulled out a few chunks of ham from dinner the night before and nibbled on that as she went back upstairs. Marianne and Isabella were still fast asleep in the bed, despite the sunlight glaring through the thin, gauzy curtains. She gave them a displeased look before fishing her blue dress and black stockings from the armoire. She got dressed and went into the bathroom to do her hair, where she found Sakura in the bathtub. The Japanese woman startled slightly and her arms flew up to cross over her chest.  
  
“Oh! I did not know anyone else was awake,” she said, looking embarrassed.  
  
“That stupid French slut and the Spanish twat are in my bed,” Alice grumbled as she brushed through her hair and pulled it into pigtails. She’d worn it that way as long as she could remember and she’d never bothered to come up with a new way to wear it, despite Marianne’s offers to help her come up with something “sexier”.  
  
The water sloshed quietly as Sakura drew her knees up. “Oh. I see.” That was her textbook response when she was disinterested in what was going on or didn’t know how to respond. Alice was used to getting it when she started complaining about Marianne (or Isabella, for that matter). She carried on regardless. Sakura was used to that.  
  
“They’re so obnoxious,” Alice went on, making a face as she leaned towards the mirror to put in her earrings. “That frog knew Isabella would follow her into my bed and she came anyway! Working late, my arse. The Mistress could run the whole bloody place with no one but Marianne in it!”  
  
“That would be impractical,” Sakura replied, wondering if she could duck her head under the water and have an excuse not to reply at all. Alice sighed.  
  
“Bloody frog. She’s going to get syphilis one of these days and who will be laughing then?”  
  
“No one?” Sakura guessed, unsure what the proper reply was. She didn’t think anyone would laugh about getting syphilis; more than one woman in the house had succumbed to it before. Her reply, though, almost made Alice feel bad about implying she’d laugh if Marianne got syphilis. Although the idea of it did give her some sort of balm for her wounded pride, in that Marianne was so much more successful than Alice. It wasn’t _Alice’s_ fault that Marianne was _everything she wasn’t._ The Frenchwoman was charming and sweet (deceptively so!) and easily played stupid for the egos of the men, something Alice could never bring herself to do. She was never biting or sarcastic and seemed to know all the right things to say. Marianne was gentle and artistic and most importantly, she was drop-dead gorgeous. Sometimes they speculated that Marianne had more regular customers than total customers the House saw in one night. Which was why it was incredible she was _still here_. She must have had one hell of a fucking debt to pay off, Alice thought. Of course, with Marianne’s preference for expensive things, that wasn’t too hard to imagine.  
  
“Are you going somewhere?” Sakura asked her as Alice carefully applied a few squirts of perfume to her wrists and rubbed them together.  
  
“Ah…I thought I’d go down to the bookstore,” she said, flustering slightly. She couldn’t afford anything there and she felt foolish saying that just being amongst the books made her feel better.  
  
“Oh. Have fun, then.” Sakura sank beneath the lukewarm bathwater so that only her dull brown eyes lurked above the surface, alert as ever.  
  
“I will. Cheerio.” Alice straightened her apron and scuttled out of the bathroom, feeling a bit embarrassed. Nevertheless, she did carry through her plan to walk down to the bookstore. Alice was the one who most often left the House; most of the other women rarely strayed off the property unless they were going ensemble for a day off. She reviewed the books in the windows before going in and finding a little cranny where she could sit and read copies of her favorite books, aching with desire for them to be hers.  
Alice had never liked her movement to be restricted. It was one of the things she hated about being a member of the House; the Mistress always had to know where they were and who they were with and what they were doing; they were essentially her property. They were most certainly her business tools, her merchandise. Sometimes she felt no better than a cow in herd of cattle. The young woman shook her head, pushing these thoughts away. She came here to relax and have a little while to herself, not think bitter thoughts about her lot in life.  
  
For a couple hours, Alice absorbed herself in reading and by the time she came back, the house was awake. Lovina was squabbling with Marianne over some poet or another, Anya was trying to feed Tiesa bites of oatmeal while Tiesa weakly protested that she was full, Elizabeta was putting Meimei’s silky hair into an elaborate French braid which they’d have to take out later that night. The day was progressing as usual.  
  
When the afternoon began to wear on, the Mistress instructed the girls upstairs to get ready. There was much pushing and fumbling and “Can you tie this for me?” and “Has anyone seen my pearl earrings?”  
  
Sakura wandered over when she’d gotten on her cheap, imitation kimono, something she wore nearly every night, unless they were having a theme. The Mistress liked to emphasize the foreignness of some girls—hence why Sakura’s nickname was simply “The Japanese”. Although she never said it, Alice got the feeling she was a bit put out with that being her title. But since she had spoken so little English on arrival and was so quiet in general, she had not supplied anything herself. The Mistress chose all their names, though, Alice hadn’t yet heard of anyone getting to pick their own.  
  
“Oh, love—can you clasp this necklace for me?” Alice asked, crouching a little so petite Sakura could reach the back of her neck to clip on the fake gold pendant. Over by one of the theater-style mirrors, Elizabeta had reached across Marianne to get something and it ended in an extended kiss. Angelique was complaining that Anya’s make-up was far too pale for her to use and was on her way to rifle through a few other drawers in search of darker make-up.  
  
It took some time for them to all be ready; they filtered down a few at a time and arranged themselves in the parlor. Isabella stretched out on the couch and Marianne sat between her long, brown legs, leaning back against Isabella’s barely-covered chest. The two had a pretty little show of fawning on each other for the entertainment of clients; they sometimes made out with each other to this end and a few times men had even requested they go down on each other; they never refused. Although they were both quite skilled in faking orgasms so it was no trouble for them to feign the whole thing if one or both of them was too tired.  
  
Sakura and Meimei sat together, speaking quietly in Japanese. No one really knew where they’d come from or even how old they were; they never spoke about their past and no one ever asked. Most of the women were pretty sure Meimei didn’t even speak English. She was perky though, and nice to be around even if she was quiet.  
Anya was lounging in one of the armchairs, her eyes flicking around the room like she was planning either an escape or a murder. Anya had always been a bit…alarming, to some costumers and even some of the girls. But her voluptuous chest on display kept her here permanently; no one else came close to matching her bust.  
  
Lovina was leaning against the wall by the window, scowling as usual. Once Alice had confided to Isabella that she didn’t understand how Lovina got any customers when she was so angry all the time and had nothing but insults for anyone. Isabella had cheerily asked wasn’t that the same attitude Alice herself had? Alice didn’t confide anything else in Isabella.  
  
They passed around bottles of gin and cheap wine; Alice wished they had whisky. But after a few…less than reputable incidents, the Mistress had decline to let Alice drink hard liquor before work. Alice declined to comment on those incidents, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world if some chap’s shoes had ended up taking a stroll on the roof. They had gotten them down, eventually.  
  
The Mistress had lit up the lamps in front of the house and now the bell was ringing; she went to answer it. The girls strained to hear the voices of the men, to tell who was coming.  
  
“I hope I don’t get fucking Antonio again,” Lovina piped up, despite the proximity of their coming customers.  
  
“Oh, Antonio is sweet,” Marianne protested. Lovina just gave her a look of disgust.  
  
“He’s a fucking dumbass, if you and Isabella want to deal with him, be my guest.”  
  
“Maybe if you joined us you wouldn’t be so snippy,” Isabella suggested, extending a lazy hand to Lovina with a welcoming look. Marianne resettled between Isabella’s smooth thighs and gave Lovina an equally seductive look.  
  
“Fuck off,” Lovina snapped, her face coloring lightly as she looked away. “You two are such goddam perverts.” When she got the bottle of wine, she thrust it into Isabella’s hand. Isabella just smiled and took a drink.  
  
“We love you too, Firecracker!” As the first customers started to shuffle in, looking about almost as if they half-expected their wives to leap out from behind a couch with an accusing finger aimed at them. Isabella gave them a lascivious grin and tipped the wine bottle over Marianne’s mouth; dark fluid leaked down her chin and onto her plump bosom.  
  
“Hey, Eve!” Marianne face twitched lightly; she strove not to wince. Instead, she fixed a languid smile on her face and reached a delicate hand out to the approaching man. “Long time no see, hm?” He grinned and grabbed her hand too tightly.  
  
“Hello, Gilbert,” she said, looking up at him from through half-lidded eyes. His eyes raked over her and as he took a seat on the couch, Marianne moved away from Isabella to sit across his lap. “You haven’t been paying attention to me,” she pouted, stroking his face.  
  
“I was away on business, chick,” Gilbert said, grabbing her hips. Marianne reached out, without looking away from Gilbert, and took the wine bottle back. She held it up to Gilbert’s lips. “Don’t you have anything stronger?” he whined.  
  
“Strong drinks for the men,” Marianne said. “Pretty things for the women. Here, taste something pretty.” She offered it to him again and he let her pour a bit of wine into his mouth.  
  
A pair of hands slid over Lovina’s eyes.  
  
“Hello, my Firecracker,” a voice purred in her ear. She swatted blindly.  
  
“Dammit, Daniel, I know it’s you!” Daniel grinned and pulled his hands away, dropping himself down in one of the chairs with his legs draped over the arm. He slapped his thigh.  
  
“Come sit with me, Firecracker!” he declared.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Lovina said, but she sashayed over and sat (heavily) on Daniel’s lap. “Where’ve you been all this time?”  
  
“It’s only been a few days, Firecracker,” Daniel said, bouncing her lightly with his leg. “Did you miss me so much?”  
  
“No, I finally had some peace and quiet,” she said, crossing her arms. Alice would’ve thought that Lovina’s sour attitude would give her a dead end in this job, but as it turned out, there were men who found her abrasive nature charming or even enjoyed being berated by her. Alice thought they were idiots. She also wished she was just a bit more surly, to be on Lovina’s level. Maybe then she’d get more customers.  
  
When Tiesa was done with her first customer, she went into the bathroom to rinse her mouth out and wipe her thighs off. He’d only been with her because Anya was busy—or so he said, anyway. Tiesa dearly liked to believe otherwise, not that she had much evidence. Angelique was in there, gargling with the green liquid herself.  
  
“Who were you with?” she asked as Tiesa grabbed a sponge to clean up.  
  
“Nikolai,” she said, slightly breathlessly. Angelique’s eyes flicked over her and then she took a cup of water without responding.  
  
“Was it good?” she asked at last, examining herself in the mirror.  
  
“It was…nice,” Tiesa said hesitantly. Nikolai had been rough, but he was always rough. Pity wrested her heart for him; she doubted anyone had shown him gentleness in his life. No one else was as patient with him—the mere presence of him nearly reduced Anya to tears. She’d been with him only once and Tiesa remembered it because Isabella had had to call Tiesa over to calm Anya down and get her out of the room. He reminded her too much of someone else, Anya had confided partially in Tiesa. Of another time. She didn’t elaborate, but Tiesa had her guesses.  
  
“Eduard is downstairs, if you’d like a go at him tonight,” Angelique offered, sliding the bottle of mouthwash over to Tiesa. She was still undecided on the matter when Angelique patted her arm and walked back out to go hunt down another customer.  
  
Alice was lounging on one of the couches, leaning against some fellow who was blathering away to Meimei about some inane hunting story or another. She hadn’t had any customers yet, but as her eyes roved the room slowly, a voice called out.  
  
“Little Jewel!” She turned to the sound and saw Lars lingering in the middle of the floor, arms slightly crossed. Taking a quiet breath, she peeled herself off the couch and meandered over to him. Her name had come at a suggestion from Marianne—the Frenchwoman had remarked that Alice’s eyes were like emeralds—little jewels. Petite bijoux, she had said. Alice didn’t like it—she wasn’t a piece of jewelry to be ogled and handled by people who weren’t looking to buy. Yet here she was, so she supposed she had little room to make that complaint.  
  
“Do you want to come upstairs?” she asked, forcing herself to reach a hand out to him. He slid his hand into hers and Alice quietly led him upstairs. It was always the same with Lars, which she supposed should have been a relief, but it was also enormously dull.  
  
Sitting on the bed, sliding her clothes off a little bit at a time; watch the way his chest tightens and his eyes begin to scan her body.  
  
 _She’s sitting up oh so straight, because Mummy always says, “Sit up straight, Alice!” And now she is, she’s on her little stool sitting up so nice and ramrod straight, it would make Mummy proud._  
  
Tilt her head back, draw a leg up, tempt him. He sheds the scarf and coat; already she can hear his breathing hitching to a lustful pant. Here he comes to her now.  
  
 _There’s big brother, stumbling in the door. His face is slack with shock and Alice can see him trembling from here._  
  
 _“Seamus! Where’s Mummy? I’m sitting straight, you see?” Alice squeaks, smoothing her dress and straightening her glasses. Seamus’ lips move but no sound comes out. He licks them, swallows, tries again._  
  
 _“Dead,” he whispers. Eyes grow behind her smudged lenses. For a moment she struggles for words._  
  
 _“You liar! You’re a dirty liar, Seamus! Where’s father?”_  
  
 _“Dead, Alice.” Seamus slumps back against the wall and slides to the floor, covering his face with his hands._  
  
 _“Stop it! Stop lying!”_  
  
Let him push her back, spread her legs. That’s always it, spread your legs, spread your legs, spread them wide open. Feign noises of pleasure as he plants sloppy kisses on her breast, rutting his hips against hers.  
  
 _More footsteps. Iona and Dyllis push through the door and Seamus hastily jumps to his feet, attempting to seem in control of his emotions, perhaps._  
  
“Iona! Where’s Mummy?” Alice demands.  
  
“Dead.” Iona’s voice trembles a bit, but Alice doesn’t believe it. Her big siblings are always playing tricks on her; that’s all it is, a trick, a prank, a lie.  
  
“Stop lying to me!” she screeches, leaping to her feet.  
  
“Oh Alice. I’m sorry.” Dyllis’ eyes well up too and Alice can’t breathe. What’s wrong? Why can’t she breathe? The world hasn’t suddenly run out of air!  
  
One, two, three. Count, Sakura had told her. Four, five, six. Counting helps. Takes your mind off it a little. Seven, eight, nine. The bed creaked beneath them; in the big window, the Mistress paused to watch and see how Alice was doing. Ten, eleven, twelve.  
  
 _“Hurry up.” The men in brown suits are impatient; Seamus wants to give Alice more time, but they don’t have it. She’s walking down the steps, dragging her hand along the railing and Seamus grasps her around the waist, lifting her away._  
  
“Come on lassie,” he murmurs. Out they go, into the carriage, into the gray afternoon.  
  
Twenty four, twenty five, twenty six. Alice wondered if she could go back and buy a book even though she’s poor as all-get out. Twenty seven, twenty eight, twen—no, finished. Panting, waiting, catching of breath. Gathering of clothes. Thanks. Money.  
  
 _They stand in line every few weeks with some new couple looking them all over, each one standing as straight as can be, except those who are too old to care, because it will never be them._  
  
The first couple wants a sturdy boy to work their farm; with no children of their own, they need help. So Seamus tells Alice to be brave and kisses Iona’s forehead and is gone. Iona calls him something nasty as he leaves, but Alice hears her crying later that night.  
  
The second couple is beautiful, oh-so clean and neat and Alice straightens up so much she almost falls over backwards. Their eyes rove and roam and hesitate at Alice. Her blood surges and she feels dizzy. They deliberate. Alice waits.  
  
“We simply can’t take three,” they tell the headmistress in her office. “Two, but not three. Three is too many. You understand. We can’t take three children. You understand, don’t you?”  
  
So Iona and Dyllis walk away, and when Dyllis glances back at Alice, her eyes are glassy.  
  
“See you later,” Lars deigned to grunt on his way out, glancing back at Alice still splayed out on the bed.  
  
“Cheerio.” There’s no emotion or inflection in her voice; she’s too lost in her own world.  
  
 _They come and come and come, but never for Alice. For ten more years, they come. And then she has to go._  
  
Only on her own does she understand Seamus’ remarks about hunger, having slipped Alice portions of his meals to keep her healthy. When one is hungry, one thinks of nothing else. Nothing else matters. Alice doesn’t even have the strength to weep for herself when Marianne finds her.  
  
When she stands before the Mistress, she can’t stand up without Marianne supporting her; the reek of perfume from the Frenchwoman makes her head spin.  
  
“Her eyes are like emeralds, Madame,” she says. “Like petits bijoux. Look how slender and petite she is. She’ll be perfect.”  
  
“Hm,” says the Mistress. And a few minutes later, Alice is not Alice, but Little Jewel, and she has a job.  
  
Sakura is at the door with her hunting gentleman.  
  
“Miss Little Jewel? May we have this room?” she asked.  
  
“Huh? Oh. Sorry.” She got off the bed and stuffed herself back into her dress, grabbing her other things as she hurried past. “Terribly sorry.”  
  
She went into the bathroom, which was empty for now, and wiped her legs off thoroughly, being sure to use the spermicide, before she finished getting dressed and gargled with the mouthwash. She spat and looked in the mirror, straightening her hair and dress. When she was out of things to do, she just stood and stared for a long time, maybe trying to see or find something in herself. Whatever it was, she gave up before she found it, and turned to go back downstairs. If she was lucky, she could grab another client (maybe two!) before the night was spent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I'll actually finish this fanfic. It's inspired and somewhat based on this excellent French film called House of Pleasures. Definitely go check it out if you like artsy films. But obviously be prepared for frequent sex scenes, since it is a movie about prostitutes.


	2. The Spanish Lady

“Lady Isabella,” a voice whispered. A hand jostled her shoulder and she started, her sheets rustling as she pulled herself into an upright position. Dazed green eyes flicked over to the figure next to her. Isabella’s brows furrowed in confusion when she recognized one of her father’s advisors.

                “Federico?” she whispered when he withdrew his gloved hand from her mouth. “What is it, what’s going on?” It was highly irregular for strange men—even her father’s advisors—to be creeping about her room in the middle of the night. But Isabella wasn’t terribly worried—it took something near the apocalypse to make Isabella worry.  Anxiety was barely a functioning emotion in the young noble, something that seemed to make her mother worry twice as much.

                “I am afraid you must dress promptly, my lady,” Federico said, straightening up. Moonlight streaming through the windows filtered through the curls in his hair and for a moment Isabella was fixated on this small detail. “The civil war approaches; you and Lady Fernández Carriedo must leave the estate.”

                “We must leave?” she echoed, her eyes widening. “Is the situation that bad, Federico?”

                “Your father fears it is; the Carlist forces approach us. He does not wish for you and your mother to be caught in the crossfire. Please, my lady, dress. Shall I send a maid in to help you?” Federico’s hand twitched; the man was very ill at ease and anxious to be elsewhere, doing something useful.

                “Si, please…” Still confused and, in a rare moment, anxious, Isabella got out of bed and went to her closet, picking through her gowns for one to wear. A few minutes after Federico’s departure, one of the Fernández Carriedo maids came in.

                “You must hurry, my lady,” Nita said, plucking a dress from the closet and handing it to Isabella.

                “No, no, not that one,” Isabella argued gently, pushing it away and selecting a red one with gold trim and a plunging neckline. “Red is my favorite color.” She smiled and slipped out of her night clothes to dress. Just because one was fleeing one’s castle was no reason not to dress nicely. Nita helped her with her corset and was pinning her hair in front of Isabella’s vanity when her mother came in.

                “Isabella, make sure you bring a valise,” she said. “And pack your jewelry.”

                “Yes, mama.” She examined her reflection in the mirror and started to apply some make-up. Out in the hall, her father paced feverishly.

                “Javier, calm down,” her mother tried to soothe him, rubbing his shoulders. “Everything will be fine. The Carlist forces are moving strong, we can win this time.” She kissed his neck and Isabella cheerfully filled her valise, occasionally asking Nita’s opinion on what she should bring, usually acting regardless of the maid’s words.  Other servants carried Lady Fernández Carriedo’s belongings downstairs and out to the waiting carriages.

                “I don’t see why we have to run,” Isabella said as her father loaded them into the carriage. Several more laden down with their possessions followed behind. Isabella’s little white dog, Columbus, ran around their feet, thoroughly excited at the preparations, as he did not yet know his mistress would be leaving without him. “Aren’t we on the side of the Carlists, father?”

                “That may be, but I would not see you and your mother caught in the fire of battle. The liberals will come to meet us and I would have you both safely far away by the time they come,” he said. And, of course, there was the chance that they would lose once more. The Carlist forces had been overcome twice before, if it happened again, Lord Fernández Carriedo didn’t want his wife and daughter caught up in the ensuing punishments.

                “Oh, we can be brave, papa!” Isabella argued, her eyes shining at the idea. Having seen nothing of battle and knowing little of life outside her gilded cage, her image of battle was of men in glittering armor, of glory, of honor. She was all for supporting her father’s cause and what he believed was best for Spain. “We can help!”

                “No, Isabella,” Javier said more firmly. “You and your mother will go ahead and stay out of harm’s way. When we have deposed that pathetic King Amadeo, I will send for you.”

                “Alright, father.” She wasn’t upset for long, though. It was hard to crush Isabella’s cheer, partly because the girl was so wildly naïve and partly because she simply had a bubbly personality. “Perhaps we’ll see something exciting in England,” she said. “Or even a real pirate!”

                “Oh, Isabella,” her mother sighed. The family fell silent and travelled swiftly. Passing through Bilbao, though, their wagon struck a rut and shattered badly. When the driver told Margarita it could not be salvaged, but would need someone to fix it, she closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them she said, “Then we will get a room in an inn, and see about the carriage tomorrow.”

                They never got the chance to worry about the wheel. The very next morning, Carlist forces had laid siege to Bilboa. Javier, imagining his family to be far away by now, was among them. Even as Isabella trembled in fear at the sound of approaching cannon fire and gunshots, she tried to remain perky for her mother’s sake, doing everything she could to calm Margarita’s nerves.

                “It will be okay, mama,” she said as she plaited her mother’s hair clumsily. “We’ll be fine! Father won’t  let anything happen to us.”

                Three days in, with the battle coming closer every day, Margarita ordered them to abandon the majority of their possessions and move further into the city. Protesting at the unfairness of this, Isabella nonetheless accompanied her mother into the streets, which were a crush of people shouting and screaming and fleeing as the Carlist forces moved in. Isabella clung to her mother’s hand as they stood outside the inn, looking in the direction of the siege. Even from here, they could see the clouds of dust from the cannons battering the buildings.

                “Papa,” was all Isabella could say, tears welling up in her eyes. She was still watching when Margarita gave her hand a strong tug and pulled her off in the safest direction they had. Her mother’s jaw was set tightly, her eyes hard. Isabella swallowed her tears and raised her head, trying to retain the image of poised nobility, even in such chaos. Fighting through the crush of people and the hordes of peasants attempting to seek refuge from the war, Margarita whisked Isabella off to the coast and got them passage to England—they’d have to wait out this ugly war somewhere else.  And, if the Carlist forces did fail to secure the throne, Margarita and Isabella would be far away, out of reach of the arm of King Amadeo and Queen Isabella.

                “We’ll write when we get to England,” she said. “We’ll have to write your father to tell him where we are…” Presuming he survived the assault on Bilboa at all. Isabella cried for leaving her father behind until her mother grabbed her shoulders and shook her, telling her to get a grip. “Your Papa made his choice,” she said. “Crying until you ruin your eyes isn’t going to save him!” Isabella covered her mouth to stifle a sob.

                The Carlist forces did not succeed in capturing Bilboa. In London, Margarita received no word from Javier, but a little less than two years later, the Carlist forces were defeated for the third and final time. Carlos VII was exiled to France and the Fernández Carriedo estate was seized. In desperation, Margarita attempted to arrange a marriage of Isabella to one of the English noblemen, but without assets or a proper dowry (even though that trend was on the fall), she hadn’t a hope. Rumors about their involvement with the Carlists ran rampant, even though no one had concrete proof. It wasn’t that hard to figure out, given that they’d fled Spain without Margarita’s husband. Their living standards in London dropped lower and Margarita began to languish, losing herself in pity. She began to sell things, but they had precious little, only a few personal valises—the rest of their possessions had been lost in Bilboa. And Margarita was so loathe to sell any of their things, her petty sales were hardly enough to keep her and her daughter afloat.

                Isabella herself, ill-equipped to deal with her mother’s emotional decline and the alarming shift in their status, struggled.

                One evening, Margarita swept into Isabella’s room where she was working on needlepoint and instructed her to dress in her finest things.

                “We’re going out,” she declared. Buoyed up by the idea of doing something fun again, Isabella gladly complied.  She and her mother ordered a nice carriage and took a ride through London. By the time they reached their destination, it was getting dark and Isabella was starting to wonder what her mother’s plans were—she hadn’t told Isabella anything. She shifted uneasily in her seat, more bored than anything else, and glanced towards her mother, who didn’t turn to look at her daughter until the carriage had come to a halt. “Come, Isabella.” She urged her daughter into the building. As they went in, red lights flickered on outside. The place smelled strange; Isabella covered her nose with one gloved hand as her mother led her into what appeared to be an office. She wished she had her handkerchief with her; she’d forgotten it, as she often did.

                “I hope you know you’ve come at the start of the business day,” said a voice behind them. A woman in a gaudy dress marched around to stand behind the desk. “Is this the girl?” She gestured to Isabella. The woman wore thick make-up and Isabella thought she might’ve been attractive in her youth, but now she was even older than Isabella’s mama.

                “Yes, this is Isabella,” Margarita said. The woman behind the desk scrutinized her for a moment. She made a gesture and Margarita turned Isabella around in a circle. The girl’s dark brows furrowed, but she was somewhat used to her mama doing things without telling her what they were. Margarita didn’t have a lot of faith in Isabella’s intelligence.

                “She’s healthy…” The woman came around and grabbed Isabella’s breasts, giving them a squeeze. Before the shocked girl could react, the same inspection was performed on her backside and then the woman demanded if she was a virgin.

                “I-I—” Isabella looked over at her mother. “No,” she said at last, looking away. Unsurprised, Margarita didn’t comment.

                “Hm. No diseases?” The gaudy woman continued her interrogation regardless of Isabella’s discomfort and ignorance.

                “No,” Margarita answered for her. Isabella glanced between the two women as they conversed like she wasn’t even in the room—or as if she couldn’t hear or speak for herself. Which wasn’t entirely unusual, but the older she got, the more she resented it. She wasn’t a child anymore—she could understand things.

                “I can give you two hundred pounds,” the woman said, making a note in a book open on the desk with a gray quill.

                “Two hundred?” Margarita exclaimed. “That’s all?” She put a hand on Isabella’s shoulder. “She’s worth more than anyone else you have here!” The woman tapped her fingers on the desk and pursed her lips, looking up at the pair again.

                “Two hundred and fifty is my limit,” she said flatly. She looked like a woman used to bargaining—a woman who stood her ground regardless of what went on around her. Isabella would not have liked the task of arguing with this woman.

                “What if I include the dress and the jewelry?” Margarita asked. The woman passed a critical eye over Isabella again and tugged on her earrings and necklace, examining each. Isabella fought the urge to push her away, though her confusion mostly overcame her annoyance.

                “Three hundred,” she said. “Final offer.”

                “She’s practically royalty!” Margarita said heatedly.

                “She’s not worth me losing my house if someone catches wind of this,” the woman said sharply. “Three hundred or get out.” Fuming, Margarita at last accepted the offer.

                “Mama?” Isabella said softly, turning wide eyes on her mother.

                “I’m sorry, my flower,” Margarita said in Spanish, touching her daughter’s cheek. “I truly am.” Her face crumpled and she started to hurry away.

                “Mama!” Isabella called after her, her voice rising in panic.

                “The Spanish Lady, I think,” the woman said, tapping the desk thoughtfully. Isabella moved to follow her mother. “You can’t go with her,” said the desk lady. “You belong here now. You have a debt of three hundred pounds to pay off.”

                “But—” Isabella turned her full-moon gaze back to the desk woman.

                “Start with stripping,” she ordered. “That dress and jewelry belongs to me now.” She went to the door and called out. “Crimson Bow! Go and get a dress for a new girl! Taller and broader than you, but not as much as Wide Thighs!”

                With tears in her eyes, Isabella slowly undressed and the desk woman—the Mistress—gave her another examination. She seemed to approve and how could she not? Isabella was strong and healthy, with smooth skin and a complexion just dark enough to look foreign. Her Spanish accent could be useful as well.

                A dark-skinned woman with her hair in braids—bound with red bows—entered and didn’t bat an eye at Isabella’s nudity. She handed over a faded old dress that almost made Isabella cry anew. But she put it on.

                “No work tonight, for you,” the Mistress decided. “Go upstairs and find a room; you’ll likely share a bed with other girls.”

                And so Isabella’s new lot in life was thrust into her hands. It seemed like she’d been there a lifetime when she came into her room (though in truth it had been about six months) and saw a woman she didn’t know sitting on her bed, staring down at her lap. She paused in the doorway and the woman looked up with wide blue eyes set in a face as lovely as any Isabella had seen before.

                “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “Is this…your room? The Madame said I should come here…” Her voice wobbled slightly and Isabella noted a tremble in her round lower lip. Her upper was a perfect cupid’s bow and Isabella was struck with momentary awe—so far no one else in the house had matched her own beauty. But Isabella was not one prone to jealousy or resentment, and she came over and sat by the distressed woman.

                “Don’t be sorry,” she said warmly. “We all share beds here. With each other and the customers!” She laughed. The woman gave her a shaky smile, but a tear slipped free and slid down her pale cheek. “Oh don’t cry!” Isabella embraced her at once. “It’s not so bad here, really it’s not!” The woman gave a little laugh.

                “Isn’t it? What’s your name?” she asked, her clear gaze passing over Isabella’s face.

                “Isabella!” the Spanish woman chirped, letting go of her new bedmate. She smiled brightly, hoping to cheer up the other woman.

                “I meant your other one—the business one,” the woman said.

                “Oh! The Spanish Lady,” she told her, tossing her mane of glossy black hair. Some people ended up with lousy nicknames, but Isabella didn’t mind hers. It made her a little proud—she still got to be Spanish, even if she was stuck in London. “What’s your name?”

                “La Française,” the brunette sighed, looking down at her lap again. Her delicate fingers twisted together.

                “Your real name, I mean,” Isabella clarified. La Française hesitated a moment—it seemed almost difficult for her. But after a moment she said:

                “It’s Marianne.” Isabella smiled again and rubbed Marianne’s back.

                “Don’t worry chica, you’re going to be okay,” she assured her. “You’re way too pretty not to do well here!” Marianne gave a shaky smile.

                “That’s sweet of you to say,” she said. “You’re quiet beautiful as well. Are you really Spanish?”

                “I am!” Isabella puffed out her chest a little. “I lived there for most of my life! Although, I suppose in a few years it will be less than half…Are you really French?” Marianne nodded.

                “I am.” She didn’t offer any more information about why she was here or what she’d been doing before she ended up at The Pink Lady. Isabella rubbed her back a little more.

                “I know it’s not the best job,” she said, “but we can be friends, if you like. It’s not as bad if you have friends.” Her face was open and inviting; Marianne relaxed a little.

                “I would like that,” she said softly, nodding. “Let’s be friends.”

 Both Marianne and Isabella were so immensely tactile; they liked to touch and be touched. With people they loved, they did it all the time, without even thinking about it. Even outside their sexual show for their customers, they were always draped over each other, kissing each other, bathing each other. To make up for the painful, aching loneliness of their lives, they took solace in each other.

                Alice was so immensely jealous of their relationship.

                At first, she had though they did it just to irritate her, playing up the two lovers act. But she’d caught them doing it when no one was around. Marianne would be reading a book on the couch and Isabella would meander over and lie down, wriggling her way in to rest her head on Marianne’s lap, where the Frenchwoman would stroke her hair and go on reading. Marianne would sit in the bath and Isabella would sit behind her, gently washing her hair or scrubbing her back while they murmured together in French. Marianne often braided Isabella’s hair and Isabella brushed out Marianne’s hair after the day was over, both of them cooing over each other’s beauty and talking these big, idealistic dreams.

                “—and when I get the house in Aix-en-Provence, we’ll get a couple goats and chickens,” Marianne was saying to Isabella as she sat on the floor, idly drawing on the back of a flier that had been taped to the door that morning. “We can even grow our own food, so we don’t have to buy.  
                  
                “And you can come visit me in my chateaux once I’ve reclaimed Papa’s land!” Isabella said cheerily, tugging through a knot in Marianne’s hair. She sat on the couch behind her friend, working through Marianne’s lush locks patiently.

                “Oh, do shut up,” Alice snorted at last from where she sat darning a pair of socks. She simply couldn’t _take_ it anymore, listening to them both prattle on about the amazing, incredible things they’d do once they’d paid off their debt to the Mistress. It was as if they had no grasp on reality at all!

                They both looked up, Isabella surprised and slightly stung, Marianne’s expression difficult to read.

                “What’s gotten a bee into your bonnet today, Little Jewel?” Marianne asked.

                “Don’t call me that,” Alice snapped, her eyes flashing. Even as she reacted, she knew she was being unfairly short and sharp with Marianne, but she couldn’t stop herself. She had this problem all the time; she would berate herself to no end when the conversation was over, but every time it happened, she made the same mistakes. It was no wonder she didn’t have any friends. “And stop acting like you’re going to become the bloody princess the second you get out of here.”

                “Oh I was never a princess,” Isabella said, apparently assuming that remark was directed at her. “But I was close!”

                “Were!” Alice said, her voice coming out even harsher than she’d intended it. “Were, were, were! You’re both just washed up, burned out in your twenties! You might as well just accept it!” Isabella looked genuinely hurt by Alice’s biting tone, but Marianne surveyed Alice thoughtfully.

                “If we’re washed up, so are you,” she pointed out.

                “At least I don’t go prancing around like an airheaded tart with my head in the clouds, thinking I’m going to snag some wonderful husband and move into a beautiful house and suddenly everything will be okay!” she snarled, her whole body tensing up. Her jaw tightened and she could feel her teeth grinding together.

                “No, you just prefer to wallow in self-pity and despair,” Marianne shot back, reaching back to take Isabella’s hand. Usually her insults weren’t much more than playful with Alice (although Alice didn’t always see it that way), but right now Marianne was a bit irritated with her for upsetting Isabella and being unnecessarily rude.

                “Me?” Alice’s voice jumped up a pitch in disbelief. “Wallow?” She got to her feet, gathering up her darning. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I’ve _accepted_ my lot in life; it’s time you do the same!”

                “I would rather have dreams of things that would never come than succumb to despair in reality,” Marianne said quietly, looking away with a distant expression. Alice snorted in derision.

                “You’re a child, Eve,” she said. “You can’t handle the real world.” Marianne didn’t look back over; her eyes appeared fixed on something Alice couldn’t see.

                “Perhaps I cannot,” she said softly. “Or perhaps you try to take on too much of it at once.” Alice looked at her in disgust and strode out of the room.

                “Why does she say things like that?” Isabella whispered as Alice vanished through the archway into the main hall.

                “Little Jewel hurts,” Marianne said, joining Isabella on the couch and pulling the other woman into her arms. “And I think sometimes it makes her feel better to snap at us.”

                “But its mean,” Isabella protested, laying her head on Marianne’s shoulder.

                “I know,” Marianne replied, brushing her hand over Isabella’s head. “But people are mean sometimes.”

                “You’re mean sometimes,” Isabella told her. Marianne laughed a little, kissing the top of Isabella’s head.

                “I know. I’m sorry,” she said.

                That night, Sadiq came for Marianne. She didn’t mind him; he was good-looking enough and had a smooth, deep voice with a very exotic accept. Only he did smell a bit odd, but he was decent to her, so she could put that aside; it wasn’t as if, by the end of the night, she smelled like a peach either. Layers and layers of perfume could only cover up so much spermicide and ejaculatory fluid.

                Tonight, though, he came for both her and Isabella. So they worked together, two set of hands, two pairs of lips, two tongues, working in sync with each other. Like gemini, they functioned both together and individually, making a sparkling performance for their customer. Isabella’s plump red lips are like velvet, her throat indomitable and Marianne’s hands are like magic, her breasts more welcoming than the softest bed. Sadiq was more than glad to lose himself in both of them, listening to their quiet giggles and breathy pants, feeling them move around him, smelling, beneath the layers of perfume, their unique scents. When they finally spent him all out (which takes quite some time), he fell back on the bed with an arm around each of them, pulling them down to rest a moment with him.

                “You two…you are amazing,” he said, shaking his head. One hand rubbed Isabella’s hip while Marianne drew circles on his chest with a finger.

                “It’s easy to do good work when we have such wonderful supplies,” she purred. “After all, what is an artist without decent paints and brushes?”

                “Or a poet without a pen?” Isabella added.

                “I know you only say these things for your payment,” Sadiq said, closing his eyes. “But go on.” So they did, until the Mistress appeared in the window and they had to remind Sadiq he couldn’t hog them all night.

                “Pity,” he said, getting up and gathering his clothes. “Perhaps some night I’ll pay for the whole night,” he joked, winking at them. He paid them both handsomely and they kissed his cheeks in thanks before sending him on his way.

                Marianne worked late again that night, so Isabella was cleaning up and undressing alone. Elizabeta stumbled into the bathroom yawning, with bruises around her upper arms.

                “What happened?” Isabella asked.

                “Ugh. Matthias,” she grumbled, examining her arms. “The man has no idea how tight his grip is…” Elizabeta stripped off her fishnet stockings and grabbed a sponge to wipe down. “How was your night?”

                “Oh, it was good,” Isabella said, wiping her eye make-up off carefully. “Sadiq pays beautifully for Eve and I; the man must be loaded.”

                “That pompous ass,” Elizabeta complained. “You know he proposed to me once while I was riding him?”

                “Why didn’t you say yes?” Isabella asked, looking over at her.

                “Because it wasn’t for real, of course,” Elizabeta said, rolling her eyes. “No one would propose to a prostitute for real, Bella. Especially not Sadiq. I’m sure he’s got some lovely, expensive wife back home who probably knows all about this.”

                “It’s too bad they don’t bring their wives too,” Isabella hummed, grabbing a toothbrush (there were a grand total of five to share between all the girls) to scrub her mouth out. Elizabeta laughed.

                “I’m sure you and Eve’s Apple would have a ball,” she said. Isabella flashed a grin.

                “So would you, Your Highness!” she said, pulling the toothbrush out of her mouth to speak. Elizabeta gave a mischievous smile and her eyes looked up and away.

                “Perhaps,” she said, going to the bathtub to turn it on. They were lucky enough to have running water, which the Mistress had seen as vital to keep her girls clean. “Can you get my back before you go?” Isabella consented and gave Elizebeta’s back a quick scrub before pulling her nightdress on and seeking out Marianne. She was asleep in a bed with Lovina, but there was a good distance between them. Isabella crawled up into that space and slid under the covers to curl up against Marianne’s back, breathing in the smell of her hair. The Frenchwoman gave a soft sound to let Isabella know she knew she was there.

                “Goodnight Marianne,” she whispered, closing her eyes. Sleep took her almost right away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The event going on in Spain at the time if Isabella's departure is the Third Carlist War, fought to place Carlos VII on the throne in place of Queen Isabella.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully I'll actually finish this fanfic. It's inspired and somewhat based on this excellent French film called House of Pleasures. Definitely go check it out if you like artsy films. But obviously be prepared for frequent sex scenes, since it is a movie about prostitutes.
> 
> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/78231236210/pains-and-pleasures)


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